Spinning Wings

I picked up a dry winged maple seed from the painted porch step, curious about its stiff, papery curve. Balancing carefully on the wooden edge beside my parked red wagon, I held the seed high above my head with both hands. When I let go, the wing caught the noon air and began to spin in a tight, dizzying whirl, spiraling down like a miniature helicopter blade. It made a dozen quick turns before fluttering to a gentle stop right across the front bumper of my wagon, resting balanced over the silver washer. It was so neat to watch that I knelt down right away to see if another one was resting nearby.